


A Reservoir of Time

by missandrogyny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had no idea when he’d began to associate time with John, but when he did, he didn’t stop. John held his entire day, his entire month.</p><p>Sherlock could see him holding the rest of his years, the rest of his life. </p><p>Solar System be damned; John was the basis of his time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reservoir of Time

The body is a reservoir of time.

Sherlock found the seconds in John’s eyes.

Eyes that were so impossibly blue, so impossibly comforting, and so impossibly understanding. Eyes that were imperceptibly indigo, in a certain light, in a certain angle, in a certain tilt of head. His eyes were the seconds of the ticking clock, which could convey emotion, thoughts or certain words left unsaid.

They were the windows of the soul, of John’s soul, where Sherlock could find the seconds of his time. They passed by, a steady tick-tock, never faltering, never wavering, like John’s steady blue eyes.

—-

Sherlock could find the minutes buried under John’s tongue, in the lick of his lips. There, just there, slow enough to notice, but fast enough to miss.

He would find it when he least expected it; through the words John’s tongue helped form, when he’d open his mouth to taste the food in front of him, when his tea was a little too hot or a little too bitter. The minutes, _his_ minutes, were buried under that little organ, that muscle, that folded and flicked and formed words, non-sensical strange sounds that humans had put meaning into.

Minutes and minutes and more minutes, just simply found in John’s tongue, in each taste bud, in each fold.

—-

Hours were found in the clenching of John’s left hand; trembling when he was terribly bored and perfectly steady when he wasn’t.

PTSD, his therapist had said to John, but Sherlock saw it for what it was. It was where his hours were hidden; carved in every finger, in every knuckle.

60 minutes, 3,600 seconds. In the space between every finger, in the split second before the hand clenched into a fist, ah, there it was, the hours.

—-

Days were in John’s little smirk, the little upturn of his mouth.

Months were in his laugh, that rich, delightful sound he made every time he was pleased.

And years were in him, in his entirety, in his jumpers and in his pants. Years were all the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months put together; years were John himself.

—-

Sherlock had no idea when he’d began to associate time with John, but when he did, he didn’t stop. John held his entire day, his entire month.

Sherlock could see him holding the rest of his years, the rest of his life. 

Solar System be damned; John was the basis of his time.

—-

(Sometimes, Sherlock would watch John, would watch his time passing by before him. Watch those blue eyes, that tongue, the clenching of his hand, that smirk; hear his rich laugh. Watch as everything he touched seemed to gravitate towards him; watch the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years pass by.

Sometimes, John would catch him watching. John would cock his eyebrow and tilt his head, and Sherlock would see the seconds. John would lick his lips, (minutes) and then smirk (days). Sherlock would stare, unblinkingly, at his time, and John would shake his head and leave. After he’d left, Sherlock would pick up the items John had touched, looking, examining, wondering.)

—-

People say to John, “He takes up all your time.” John laughs.

Sherlock wonders if people know that the same was true for him, that John took up all his time. 

John takes up the space in his flat, John takes up the space in his head, and now John takes up all his time on this earth. His entire life.

Sherlock wonders if people know that his time hid in every crevice of John’s body, that John was an unwavering presence in his head.

If they knew, people would tell Sherlock, “He takes up all your time.”

And Sherlock would laugh, because it was the truth, and it was quite funny.

—-

“I wonder if people know,” Sherlock mused out loud once.

“Know what?” John asked, looking up from his book.

“That you hold all my time.”

John looked confused and Sherlock did not clarify.

—-

John tasted like pennies.

Maybe it was because John was bleeding in his mouth when Sherlock decided to kiss him, but the fact remained that John tasted like pennies. 

Soon, tongues danced with each other, and Sherlock could taste his minutes flying by.

And when Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, he saw exactly how many seconds passed by.

John offered his hand, and Sherlock could see the hours they could spend together.

He takes it.

—-

After the incident, Sherlock lost track of his time. 

He lost track of his life.

At first he didn’t know what to do. If a planet fell out of orbit from the sun, it would be destroyed. Sherlock was sure he’d be destroyed.

But he’d found something. He realized that the sooner this was over, he could return to John, and time would continue.

It was a ghost of his sun; not as bright, but strong enough to hold him.

And that’s where he’d based his time, just until he gets back to his sun.

—-

He destroyed Moriarty’s web, one by one, slowly but surely.

He threw himself into his work, with the intention of finishing as soon as possible to be able to return to time.

—-

Nostalgia tasted like pennies.

—-

He sat down on the edge of his bed on Zurich and cried.

His new phone said it was 12:02 am.

It didn't mean anything to him.

—-

“Well, well.” Moran said, standing on the roof. “Sherlock Holmes, still alive. You’ve caught me, I suppose.”

Sherlock stepped forward and shot him straight in the head.

—-

He returns to London.

He catches a cab straight to 221B Baker Street (how he’d missed saying that address, how he’d missed the way it rolled of his tongue), and gives Mrs. Hudson a fright.

And when he opens the door to his apartment, slowly, his eyes meet John’s.

—-

But of course he’d forgotten something. Deleted it.

Just as the planets don’t stop orbiting the sun, time does not stop for anyone or anything.

In the split second he looked at John, he saw.

He saw John’s blue eyes, saw his left hand, saw how he held himself.

He saw the time that had passed since he’d last saw John, the time he thought wasn’t passing at all.

—-

“Three years.” John says in a neutral tone. His eyes were flat.

“Three years,” Sherlock repeats, dumbly. He hadn’t known it had been this long. He hadn’t thought that time would affect John. 

He hadn’t _thought_.

Something unfurls in his chest, something painful. He clenches his hands on his sides. He wants to go up to John, wants to apologize, hug him, kiss him….

But he can’t.

John stands shakily, gripping his cane on his left hand. They stare at each for quite a long time, before John drops his cane, takes three steps towards Sherlock and punches him in the face.

\---

An explosion of pain, and Sherlock staggers back.

The hours John must’ve spent mourning hits him as hard as the punch.

The pain in his chest just gets worse.

Sherlock’s back is to the wall, and John charges at him.

“John, I…” he says

“You bastard,” John replies. “Three fucking years.” 

John grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him forward.

And suddenly, they’re kissing.

—-

John tastes like pennies.

Maybe it’s because Sherlock’s bleeding in the mouth when John kissed him, but the fact remains that John tastes like pennies.

Soon, their tongues began to dance their familiar dance, Sherlock could taste the minutes John spent missing him, praying that he was still alive. 

And after, when Sherlock looks into John’s eyes, he sees how many seconds it’s been since Sherlock returned to John’s life.

And he sees how many seconds it has been since John became happy again.

—-

The body is a reservoir of time.

Sherlock found his time in John.

Sherlock found his life in John.

The body is a reservoir of life.

—-

And as the seconds pine for minutes,

the minutes pine for hours,

the hours pine for days,

the days pine for months,

the months pine for years.

—-

Only until the final light in Sherlock’s eyes go out will he taste goodbye.

It will hurt. It will wound him to be separated from his time.

But goodbyes are temporary.

And time heals all wounds.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this poem: http://oleanderss.tumblr.com/post/46028042288/iii-the-body-is-a-reservoir-of-time-minutes.


End file.
